


Circling the Drain

by MonstaGrrl



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Amnesia, Bill wants answers, Body Horror, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Gets real fucked up at chapter 5, Horror, M/M, Monster sex, Mystery, Or Fuck, Other, Pennywise is in this too, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Robert wants Bill, Slow Burn, Thriller, To die, bare with me, just sayin, or Both
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-01-29 16:43:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12635025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonstaGrrl/pseuds/MonstaGrrl
Summary: After receiving a mysterious letter inquiring about his brother’s disappearance 26 years ago, grizzled author—Bill Denbrough, returns home searching for answers to questions he cannot comprehend, and to piece together the memories of a childhood he cannot recall.





	1. 26 years later

**Author's Note:**

> Plz send all questions to my tumblr blog: Monster-sex-party.tumblr.com
> 
> Also currently looking to hire a beta for this story. Inquire within.

_It began slow._

_Late October had brought a frigid wind, and with it settled the leaves and rain. The Downpours began soon after. Torrents of ice clawed at the city streets, cutting rivers down blacktop, and digging deep into cracks and crevices. The town of Derry, Maine, was beaten down by the brutality of such a tempest, while its people walked the streets in huddled masses; their heads bowed and bodies cold to the touch._

_It was the kind of weather that could hollow out a man; leaving him mangled and numb from the inside-out. The kind of weather that seeped deep into the bones, soaking up all things cold and dark. The kind of weather that left the mind swollen; floating on memories past, and threatening to burst under the weight of its depth._

_It was the kind of weather that welcomed the return of Bill Denbrough._

_––_

Clutching letter in hand, Bill looked out the cab window, searching the murky gloom for a sign. 

Trees and houses blew through the wind as the cab turned curbs and swept down slops; guided only by the light of its high-beams against the growing shade of an October evening.

Bill’s grip on the letter tightened as the thudding in his heart crept to a restless beat. He was close, he could feel it. 

Although the rain cast a veil of obscurity upon the land, through the fog reflected a beacon of light against the eroded face of an old street sign. Bill read the name, and something clicked into place. 

“Stop the car!” He yelled, and braced himself as the cab broke to a sudden halt. 

“This is it.” Bill provided, and wordlessly began gathering his meager belongings. Reaching for the door, he tugged on the handle then paused when it didn't budge. Bill tried a second time, but the door remained unmoved. 

Bill looked to the front seat, questions bubbling up his thought, but swallowed them when he caught the grizzled face of the old cab driver glaring back at him. “You gotta pay first.” The man proscribed, and tapped at red numbers on the till. 

“Oh… Sorry,” Bill mumbled, and pulled a wallet from his jeans. Around him the rain rippled against the windows. “I seem to have lost my mind.” He continued, and laughed hesitantly as he offered a twenty and told the man he could keep the change. “That’s been made apparent, Son.” The cabbie replied, and turned back to the road.

A pause, then—

“Um…” 

“…Yes?” The man acknowledged, raising a cigarette to his face. 

“The door?” 

“What about it?” He pulled a lighter from the gloved box. 

“It’s locked.” 

“I know.” He lit the cigarette. 

Bill waited, perplexed as he watched the man inhale, pause, then exhale a slow stream of smoke into the gloom of the cab. Bill sneered and reached for the window crank as the man finally spoke. 

“Why are you here, boy?” 

“Excuse me?”

Another puff of smoke, and then—“You blow in with the storm, asking for a ride to a place you can’t recall, and then…” the man took another long drag, before exhaling a smoky sigh. “You bring me _here.”_

The aggravated offense in the man’s tone did not go unnoticed by Bill. Outside, the rain fell, as the day followed. “I don’t understand,” Bill began, searching for the man’s eyes in the mirror, only to see shadow and the glow of a cigarette butt. 

The man snorted. “Course you don’t. You don’t know nothing.” With eyes facing forward, he pointed out the passenger side window. “Look there, boy.” 

Bill followed the pale length of the man’s wrinkled finger through the curtain of rain, and past the overgrown weeds. There, hidden amongst the wet and dark was a single looming point. 

Neibolt House. 

_He stared, transfixed. Laughter carried into the distance._

_He stared, blinded. A searing weight burned inside his fingers._

_He stared, entranced. His breath froze within his lungs._

_He stared, and stared, and stared._

**_“What are you looking for, Billy?”_ **

Bill snapped his head back to the old man; pupils dilated; sweat running down his face. 

“What did you say?”

The man turned; fag burning low. “I said—what are you looking for, boy?” 

Bill shook his head. “No, that’s not what you said.” He raised a shaking finger and pointed to himself. “You said my name.” Then turned his finger on the man. “How do you know my name?” 

A drag, then— “I did not say your name, boy.” 

“Yes you did!”

Eyes narrowed— “I did not.” 

“Don’t lie to me!” Bill shouted, and was surprised by the desperation in his voice. “I know what I heard. You said—” He paused, swallowing, and looked back out the window. “You said…” He repeated, and exhaled a shaky breath. He opened his mouth, but no sound came as Bill lost himself in the out-stretched shadow of Neibolt House. The more he looked, squinting through weeds and rain, the more the house hid itself from sight. It crouched low, contorted inward, and faded into obscurity behind rain and fog. 

In that moment, Bill’s literary mind began to simmer; popping and fizzling with inspiration, words came unbidden, twisting themselves within the coil of his tongue. Outside, the world reshaped itself. Colors bled and lines blurred, melting into a pallet of runny grays that reminded Bill of sewage. He blinked, and Bill was no longer sitting within the backseat of a dirty taxicab, but instead, was gazing out the window of a dark room, cast in the shadow of a gloomy October morning.

The sound of a door closing, and Bill glanced down, following the splashes of boots upon puddles.

 _He watched,_ as a boy in a yellow slicker emerged from below the window sill. 

 _He watched,_ as the boy jumped, played, and danced in the rain. 

 _He watched,_ as the boy placed a small paper boat upon a funnel of water, and whooped in glee when it took off down the stream. 

 _He watched,_ as the boy ran down the road, laughing as he chased his boat deeper and deeper into the murk, until the storm swallowed him whole… And Bill knew he would never see this boy again. 

**_“What are you looking for, Billy?”_ **

A rush of wind and the sound of balloons popping; Bill woke to the dark relief of a grimy backseat, and the steady pitter-patter of rainfall. 

Eyes closed, Bill turned away from the window and breathed. He knew the man was still sitting there, quietly watching. The light of the fag had long since burned out, and now the shadows of  the evening pulled inward, crowding his resolve while Bill tried to soothe the addles of his mind. 

“I think you’d better go.” 

Bill nodded, and cradled his head in his hands. He didn’t want to respond to the old man—didn’t want to look him in the eye, not when Bill feared he would break at any moment. 

“Ja—” 

_That October morning._

_“_ Ja–Ja.”

_The boy in the yellow slicker._

_“_ Ja–Ja…Ja.” 

 _The paper boat_. 

And another piece clicked into place. 

With quivering lips, Bill whispered a single name: “Georgie.”

Hands slackened around his face, and slowly, Bill lowered them to the seat. He tightened his fingers until he could feel his nails digging into his palms. 

Georgie. 

He had forgotten about Georgie. 

He had forgotten about the day Georgie had disappeared. 

Looking back it seemed impossible to forget. That cold miserable day, that dark solemn house, the bright yellow of Georgie’s slicker against the dreary grey of the storm. 

_“Why won’t you come with me, Bill?”_

A shaky breath. The uncurling of fingers. And the steadying of an anxious heart.

Silent, and carefully, Bill stepped out of the car. He closed the door. He didn’t look back. 

The pull of Neibolt House beckoned Bill, and with an excitement he couldn’t place, he began walking, careless of the rain that fell upon him, following a dark road to an unknown destination. 

Bill felt as a child—adventurous, and naive. And although the voices of adults whispered in his ear, warning him of shadowy houses and stormy nights—Bill ignored them, and approached the wrought-iron gate, separating an ordinary street from its festering wound. 

Decades of neglect had weathered what was once the strong features of a classic Victorian homestead. It stood hunched over, its body resting at an odd angle; and if Bill could understand the secret language of houses, he would have guessed that Neibolt House was crying out in pain, begging for a release that never came. Not from centuries past, nor centuries to come.

Time had been an abusive mistress to the tale of Neibolt House, and through its suffering, it had been left to rot, and to endure.  

“What are you looking for, Billy?” 

The sound of the voice—foreign, the tone of its words—concerned, and the surgical inflection of its dialect, snapped Bill from his waking dream, dragging him down, deep into the grey and wet and miserable—back to reality, back to it. 

Bill turned expecting… _something._ He didn’t understand why his heart quickened, nor why sweat pooled under his brow, but the intense desire Bill felt was unmistakeable. It was a desperate, panicked need to survive; a precipice between life and death—a final effort to breathe before the dam broke, the depth of his fear devouring him alive. 

Whatever Bill expected, the ordinary form of a man standing in the rain was certainly, _not it._ Bill swallowed, staring from the bright red umbrella the man held, to the dark contrast of his black pea coat. From beneath the umbrella, Bill could see a pair of pale lips pulled into a thin line. 

Thunder roared, lightning flashed, and the storm intensified. 

Slowly, the man raised his umbrella, and from beneath its shade, a pair of blue eyes pierced the darkness. 

“Hello Billy.” The man greeted, “… Or do you prefer Bill?” 

He pulled a gloved hand from his pocket, and with a shadowed smile, the man reached out through the void between them, beckoning Bill. 

“My name is Robert Gray.” 

 


	2. A Dinner with Robert Gray

_Thunder roared, lightning flashed, and the storm intensified._

_Slowly, the man raised his umbrella, and from beneath its shade, a pair of blue eyes pierced the darkness._

_“Hello Billy.” The man greeted, “… Or do you prefer Bill?”_

_The man pulled a gloved hand from his pocket, and with a shadowed smile, he reached out to the void between them._

_“My name is Robert Gray.”_

_—_

Bill stared openly at the man—Robert Gray, and felt the space between them stretch. It expanded beyond reach; reminding him of weekends spent at East Sussex, when he was lost amongst the shore; gazing into the mouth of an ocean, wide and unfathomable. 

The man’s eyes were very blue. To look within them was to dive beneath a frozen lake; cold and unfathomable. Bill felt compelled to submerge within that lake—to take the plunge willingly; to meet its frigid embrace with arms held out, wet and trembling.

Bill wondered how long he had stood there; drenched and gazing into those beautiful cruel eyes. 

The sound of thunder assailed Bill’s senses, and flinching, he was suddenly aware of his close proximity to the tall man holding the crimson umbrella.

He reached out to grasp the man’s hand, it felt damp, slimy, cold. It was like shaking hands with a corpse.

If his disgust was evident to the other man, he didn’t comment.

Cruel blue eyes narrowed, and the man’s grip tightened; pulling Bill under the wide relief of his umbrella. “How pitiful,” he reproached, “That such a clever boy would do something so… dull-witted.”

“Wha-what?” Bill asked, stumbling over his words. His tongue felt swollen, and it struggled to find placement in his mouth. “W-what do y-you mean?”

—

“Robert Gray,” the man repeated, “Or ‘Bob’ if you prefer.” His smile opened up to a wide mouth of stark white teeth—perfect teeth, Bill observed, and looked strangely out-of-place on this man.

“An-and… ha-how da-do–oo—” Bill continued,“Ya-you–oo, na-na… _know–wo_ ma-my na–Aaame.” Bill held out the last syllables, forcing his tongue to enunciate the words he desperately tried to articulate.

His smile fell, but Robert didn’t answer, he only tightened his grip. The man’s long spider-like fingers engulfed Bill’s much smaller hand, and the author felt a singular, unpleasant heat begin to prickle from within his palm. Bill felt the weight of those strong digits grow heavier as they smothered his skin like a dry, leathery cocoon.

A moment passed, the rain fell, and the wind blew around them.

Slowly, Robert retracted his hand, pocketing it into the folds of his peacoat. “That letter,” Gray began, eyes narrowing on the fist that held the subject of discussion. “I was the one who wrote it.”

Bill opened his mouth, ready to voice a million questions, but Robert brought his hand to Bill’s face. “Not here,” he hissed, and Bill’s lips snapped shut. Robert pulled from his coat a pair of keys, and motioned behind him to where a slick black BMW was parked. 

Bill looked between the man and the car, unsure of what he was implying. Robert sighed, and motioned to the author’s clothes. “You look soaked to the bone. Let me buy you a hot meal to stave off this dreary evening.”

Bill nodded, suddenly aware of the hunger the squeezed against his ribs. The frigid air felt heavy as it enveloped his body, and Bill couldn’t remember how long he had been standing outside.

Gray wrapped a hand around Bill’s back. When the author looked up, he caught the cool apathy within Robert’s sharp, bitter eyes.

Gray unlocked the car and opened the door for Bill. He dropped his luggage into the far seat and slid in after them. Inside, the leather was slick and warm to the touch, and it had the crisp, waxy scent of a rental. Closing his umbrella, Gray slid into the drivers seat and started the engine. Wordlessly, he pulled the car back onto the road and drove towards civilization.

Bill sat in the front seat, arms clapped around his chest, hands pressed into his sides, head bowed and eyes screwed shut. The heat was on, but the hot air from the vents couldn’t penetrate the cold that lingered in his skin.

“Ho-how da-did you fa-find me-ee?”

Bill’s question hung in the air a moment, then Gray answered, “When I discovered that you hadn’t checked into the hotel we agreed upon, I had assumed you were either lost in town or lost in thought.” He turned and flashed Bill a hidden smile.

“Ba-but… Bu-ut, how di-did ya-you no-know wa-whe—”

Bill was interrupted by Gray’s arm as it shot out and opened the glove compartment in front of him. The man pulled out a black book with a familiar title on the cover. “Because,” he held out the book to Bill. “You wrote about it.”

Bill grasped the book in both hands, feeling the worn pages between his fingers. He read the title, _“INSOMNIA,”_ and unpleasant memories rushed back to the forefront of his mind. He had been in a very dark place when he wrote this book. Mechanically, Bill flipped to the first chapter and traced the words.

_“In my darkest dreams, I saw a house not unlike any other. It stood tall amongst the shadow of the dead that slept beneath it. A murder-house, some would whisper, a place for vagrants and degenerates others would assume; but none could guess its truth: that deep within the hallows of its walls, between the cracks and crevices, hid an evil watching in the dark.”_

Bill looked up from the novel to the stoic profile of Robert Gray. “Aa-nd, ya-you na-knew that I-I wa-was ta-alking about-t Nah-Nah…Neibolt Ha-House?”

Robert laughed; a low mocking sound, then without looking at Bill, answered, “Where else Billy? Where else could it have been?”

“I-It’s Ba-Bill.” The author reminded, and shoved the book back in the glove compartment. As they pulled into the _Derry Inn_ parking lot, Bill hugged himself tighter, but not from the cold.

He opened the car door and stared up at the gaudy neon letters of the Derry Inn logo. Bill had not noticed how much his town had changed. When he arrived from the airport Bill had barely any memory of his childhood home, but when the frigid air hit his lungs, and the torrential rain struck his body, something turned on in the back of his mind, and since that moment he had been haunted by the vision of a dark, narrow hall, in a house he recognized immediately.

Bill looked away from the sign, suddenly feeling that same pull nag at the back of his head. poking and prodding at his anxieties; feeling as if he should be remembering something important. The creeping feeling of spidery hands on his shoulder pulled Bill’s thoughts back to reality, where he was met with the a pair of icy, bemused eyes.

“Do you enjoy drowning, Bill?”

“Wha-What?” That question took him by surprise, and it showed on his face.

“You stare into the sky, mouth agape…” Robert crooned, and brushed a finger over Bill’s cold-burnt cheek, wiping away at freshly shed tears. “Don’t cry, Bill.” He murmured, “It’s such a beautiful waste of suffering.”

Before Bill could respond, Gray retracted his hand, picked up the luggage, and strode into the hotel without words. And as Bill stood there, frozen by the chill of the man’s lingering presence, a single thought weighed upon his mind:

_He has such cruel eyes._

With one last look out into the dark wet Derry evening, Bill followed Robert’s trailing shadow into the warmth and light of the Hotel.

Inside the hotel lobby, people were a bustle of huddle bodies. They lounged by the fireplace, drank coffee and talked the night away. Bill felt as a voyeur, watching them breathe life into their private havens, careless to the misery of others.

Two young lovers leaned in for a kiss, and Bill felt a stab of longing at the sight. A beautiful face with curly brown hair came to mind. His lips parted wordlessly, and he would have said her name aloud, had it not been for the crushing weight that followed it.

_Audrey._

Bill was still sore over how things had ended between them. A fresh chill ran down his spine, and a familiar throb pulsed within his chest at the memory. Every fight they had, every issue, every disagreement, had been wholly his fault.

Bill followed Gray to the front desk. Gray muttered something in a quick, whispered tone that Bill didn’t quite catch before the man behind the desk nodded his head and pulled a key from a wall of hooks behind him. Gray snatched the key from the man’s fingers with a charming smile, pocketing it before turning, and walking toward a set of stairs that lead deeper into hotel. Bill followed, silently.

The second floor was much like the first, with soft ambient lighting, and a red carpet splitting a hallway with rich pine paneling lining the walls. Gray stopped at a door with the numbers: 311 etched into a golden plaque. He pulled the key from his pocket and turned the latch.

“This is your room.” The man provided, before opening the door. Gray walked in and Bill followed suit, noting a slight stench of bleach and other cleaning chemicals as he crossed the threshold.

A light-switch was flipped, and the room was illuminated in a warm glow. The wall’s were covered in aged wallpaper, with a gaudy, repetitive floral print. The carpet was a simple beige, with a four-post oak bed, writing desk, and matching dresser. Bill brushed his hand against the ivory quilt, noting the stains that still bled through after hundreds of washings. Not for the first time, Bill fantasized about those discolored blotches. What stories could these stains tell, was it simply spilled coffee… or was it something else?? Bill felt a sudden rush of inspiration and reminded himself to plot out a story about an old hotel room, shifty cleaning staff, and a killer on the run. The thought of dull, dreary, mundane Derry Maine, housing a murderer had Bill’s fingers twitching for the keys of his laptop.

“—And with just a drop… BAM! Say goodbye to those clogged toilets!”

Bill turned at the sound of noise behind him. Gray had turned on the TV above the dresser and was watching infomercials. The man seemed enamored by it, Bill noted, and stood barely a foot away from the small box, gazing into it with steadfast attention. Bill shook his head, and turned away smiling, toying with the idea of a grim, shadowy man like Robert Gray enjoying sleepless nights downing pints of ice-cream and watching infomercials on loop. Bill’s literary mind percolated on that thought, and he bookmarked it to draw upon later. Perhaps a character for his novel… an apathetic man, tall and intimidating to most, but behind closed doors enjoys Ben & Jerry’s and the Home Shopping Network.

Bill hid the ghost of a smile as he knelt beside his bags. Opening the latch to the largest case, he pulled some fresh clothes and walked across the room toward the bathroom. Behind him, Bill could hear the jarring buzz of the old television grow louder. Gray must have raised the volume, he guessed, and stifled a chuckle, his fear and nerves melting away almost instantly.

“—That’s right, kids! Now you too can play in the toilet! No more struggling to unclog pipes, no more plunging or dunking. No more chasing your brother down a sewer—”

Bill snapped back; eyes alight, and heart pounding. But before he could fully comprehend what was happening, Gray had turned the dial on the box, killing the TV. He turned to Bill with a smile. “Something the matter Bill? You look white as a flounder,” Robert paused and gestured to Bill, “—And just as wet.”

Bill’s body betrayed his mind, shaking his head when internally, confusion and reason battled for dominance.

That commercial… He could of sworn he heard….

Bill bowed his head and took a deep breath.

He was tired. It was a long flight from London, and he’d had little sleep. Yes—that’s it. Tired. Nothing more.

Bill nodded his head feverishly, cementing his own logic, reassuring himself best as he could. When he looked up again, he flashed a fake smile at Grey and waved his hand in dismissal.

“No—it’s na-nothing.” Bill stated, and pushed open the door, stepping inside. As he closed it he added, “I—I’ll be o-out in fa-fifteen i-if ya-you’d like ta-to wa-wait downstairs-ss.” To this Gray nodded, and placed the key upon the bedside table. He turned to leave, but paused and added, “No drowning Bill,” and flashed his teeth, closing the door behind him.

—

After a shower and a fresh set of clothes, Bill searched the lobby for the tall form of Robert Gray. The desk clerk informed him that Gray was waiting at the hotel’s restaurant, so Bill followed the man’s directions through a large set of double doors and into a surprisingly nice sit-down style restaurant with cedar paneling and ambient light. The whole place looked warm and cozy, and teased Bill’s senses with thoughts of cocoa and blackberry pies.

Robert was found seated in a shadowy corner of the room; adjacent to both a window, and afire place, and Bill had no doubt that Gray had chosen it for its seclusion. Bill approached, Robert stood, and it was here, in the dim light of the restaurant, that Bill finally took note of how tall Robert Gray really was. He towered over Bill, and if he had to guess, Gray was about 6’4” to 6’6”. Without his peacoat, Bill could make out the lean figure of the man—all long limbs and narrow hips. A model’s body, Bill noted; dressed in a crisp white button down and dark slacks. Robert held out his hand, and like dog, Bill complied, only to snatch it back in pain.

“Something wrong?” Robert asked, concerned.

“Ya-You’re ha-hand is ca-cold.” Bill stated, “I wa-was sur-pra-prised is all. Es-pe-pecially, this ca-close ta-to the fa-fire.”

“Oh? How strange.” Robert replied, and made a point of sweeping a hand through his orange locks.

Bill nodded and staring down at his open palm. He flexed his fingers, the stinging was gone as if it were never there. The long-healed cut was slightly raised and angry. It looked like someone had poured salt under his skin, then sewed it up immediately so it could fester.

“That looks rather nasty.” At the sound of Robert’s voice, Bill looked up to catch the man leaning forward, his thumb and forefinger cupping his chin as he inspected the scar. Bill couldn’t help but notice how close their faces were. He could see the amber highlights of the man’s red hair as the light stroked it; he could see the deathly pale color of the man’s cheeks—sallow and dull, much like the man’s eyes. To Bill—Gray resembled a corpse, reconstituted and walking amongst the living, yet when closely inspected was just as devoid of life.

“Are you in pain?” Robert asked, and Bill shook his head in reply. “It’s ja-just a scratch,” Bill provided, and quickly pocketed his hand. “I da-don’t quite ra-remember ha-how I got it… ba-but I think it wa-was when I wa-was a cha-child. An axe-ssa-ccident maybe…I’ve ha-had it as la-long as I coo-could remember.”

“Interesting…” Robert began, and straightened his back. He pulled out his chair, gesturing to Bill’s own and waited for Bill to sit before doing the same, and continuing, “Childhood is so aggressively fascinating isn’t it? The one time in a person’s life, where you are unaware of the dangers all around, and the yawning chasm waiting for you at its end. The only time where a person is really happy and free of care.” his sallow, angular face split at the lips into a smile that turned Bill’s stomach. “—And yet, it’s so hard to remember.”

Bill was silent a moment, then— “It’s the reason I’m here now. It’s why I came back.”

Robert raised an eyebrow. “Yet it took you three months to answer my letter.” It wasn’t a question.

The intensity of Gray’s piercing eyes soured Bill’s confidence, causing the author to break eye-contact, and look out the window instead. Outside, Bill could see the glow of storefronts across the street. Many of the stores were closed, save for one— _Sandy’s Nail Salon_ , whose window displayed a large neon sign, that read; _“We’re Open,”_ and to _“Come on in!”_ If Bill squinted he could make out a bustle of women as they got their nails done. Perhaps for parties, dates, or just because.

Like mom used to do.

That was before Georgie. Before everything went to Hell.

Bill sighed. Now sober from any feelings of doubt about coming home, he answered Robert. “I wa-was afraid.” He didn’t look away from the window, but Bill could feel Robert’s narrow-eyed smirk. “A ta-terror so-o viral, I-I wa-was struck with fa-fever at the tha-thought of re-returning to this wa-weathered Hellmouth.”

“Hellmouth, Mr. Denbrough? That sounds a little harsh for such a peripheral town.”

Bill blushed, and looked to the table where his hands had begun playing with the silverware.

“It’s uh… far-from a-a tv shh-show.” Bill paused, then added, “Buffy.”

“Buffy?” Robert asked, brow knit as he crossed his legs. “I’m afraid I am not familiar...”

Bill felt the unpleasant prickling of a heat spread across his cheeks as he started tapping a spoon on the oak table. “It-s ca-called, Ba-Buff-fy the Vam-pa-pire Slaya-yer.” He confessed.

Bill silently cursed his stutter at that moment. As if he wasn’t embarrassed enough, his old speech impediment made explaining himself an awkward and degrading affair. Not for the first time, Bill wondered if his homecoming may of had a greater affect on his psyche than he originally thought.

 _“Buffy the Vampire Slayer?”_ Gray clarified, and after a nod from Bill, the man laughed. It was a cruel, patronizing sound. When Robert’s laughter ceased, he addressed Bill in a more cordial tone, and asked, “Are all of your favorite shows just as “high-brow,” and “bone chilling” as this ‘Buffy’ show? It’s no wonder your recent work gets the reviews It does...”

Bill felt like he had just been insulted.

“Ha-Have ya-ou seen Buffy?” He blurted out, “The ma-main ca-character is ya-young girl who’s da-destiny as a sla-ayer of evil was thra-thrust upon her at tha-the pa-peak of her cha-childhood, and the ca-cusp of her adulthood”

Bill recounted several of his favorite scenes from the show, relaxing as he fell into the familiar explanations of why he idolized the character of Buffy Summers.

“De-Despite the difficulty ba-balancing her life with the tra-trageda-dees that ba-befell her, Buffy stayed strong… Sha-she didn’t let her harrowing expa-pa-eriences devour her.” Bill explained, then lowering his voice, he corrected, “—didn’t let them consume her.”

Bill then braced both hands on the table, and leaning forward, he glared into Robert’s stoic mask, and steadfastly proclaimed, “Buffy isn’t afraid of the dark—the dark is afraid of her!”

A conscious peace fell upon the shadowed corner. Outside, the rain tapped at the windows, but inside, cast in the warm light of the fire, the two men silently appraised one another.

For the second time that night, Bill found himself studying the features of the other man. Robert had a low, stern brow. His eyes were set deep in their sockets, and shaded heavily no mater what the lighting. His resting countenance was a calm, neutral expression, with a hint of curl at the lips. This was the face of a practiced critic; never impressed, always bemused, forever glaring at you from the shadows.

“Oh Bill,” Robert cooed, “Why do you enjoy torturing yourself?”

Bill choked. “Wa-what?”

“What I mean Bill,” clarified the sallow man, “—is that you don’t share the qualities of a _‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer.’_ Not a _Buffy_ , not a _Van Helsing_ , not even a _Mina_.” Robert stifled a smirk and continued, “No—your work is the product of your imagination, Bill. Something closer to that of Lovecraft. Are you familiar?”

Bill raised a brow and parted his lips ever so slightly, almost offended by the question.

“H-Howard Phillips-ss Lovecraft? Robert I’m a ho-horror author, of ca-course I’m familiar. He’s the fa-father of co-cosmic horror. He wrote _The Ca-Call of Cthulhu,_ _Dagon, The Dunwich Horror;_ In one lifetime he created and p-perfected a whole genre of fiction.”

Robert inclined his head, his gray face lighting up in a way that was surprisingly human.

“Precisely. His works sprung out of his own nightmares; his own horrid fantasies. He was a coward in his own mind, and thus his characters reflected that. Oh don’t give me that look Bill, there’s no shame in being frightened. Howard was a coward born of circumstance. He had the talent to dream up monstrosities, and in turn, it drove him mad with fright. And although he feared his dreams, Howard became a very famous man because of it. You are not a brave soul, William Denbrough—not a slayer of beasts, nor exorciser of demons; but there’s no shame in that. Embrace it! It’s who you are, Bill: A homebody. An author.”

Bill raised an eyebrow. “Yo-You talk as if you kn-know me.”

“I’ve read your books.”

“And that gi-gives you… w-what? An insider lo-look?”

“I know your type.”

“N-No. You don’t.” Bill scoffed, and looked away from the sallow man.

The rain rattled against the windowpane, casting Bill’s reflection back at him. He looked tired.

“Sorry for the wait gentlemen.” A high pitched sugar-sweet voice split the air, “Buddy had a fire to put out. Literally.” A giggle and Bill turned to see a blond twenty-something woman smiling down at him. Her name tag read, “Kitty.” She wore too much makeup and smacked her gum as she spoke.

“Ya’ll ready to order?” The gaudy woman drawled

Bill frowned. “Is e-everything okay?”

Kitty blinked. “What? Oh—yes! It’s just the fryer again.” Hands on her hips, she smacked louder, shaking her head. “Damn thing splashes grease everywhere, and we ain’t got the money to fix it.”

“Um…” Bill muttered after a pause, “is that le-legal?”

Her lips smacking, Kitty shrugged, then pulled a notepad from her apron. “Who knows,” she answered, and clicking her pen, she looked pointedly to Bill. “So what are ya ordering?”

Nonplused by the woman’s dismissal, Bill turned his face back to the menu and ordered the first thing he saw. “I’ll h-have th-the uh… ba-bacon burger. A-nd, g-glass of swe-et tea.”

Kitty paused in her gum smacking and crumpled a tapered brow at Bill. “Something wrong with you?” Bill felt his cheeks warm and ducked his head. “No.” He mumbled. The woman frowned, but jotted down his order, then turned disinterested eyes to Robert. “And you?”

“Glass of Merlot.” He ordered, handing the menu back to her. Bill followed suit, and Kitty stuffed them under he arm. “Anything else?” She asked, gum smacking and eyebrow raised, daring either of them to make her job any more difficult than it already was. Bill shook his head.

Kitty paused, blew a bubble, then turned on her hip and sauntered away. The sounds of gum smacking and the smell of perfume trailing behind her.

Bill waited until she was out of earshot then turned back to Robert.

“No Appetite?”

“Hardly.” Robert voiced, his lips curling as eyes narrowed; a habit Bill was quickly discerning as a joke at his expense. He wanted to say as much, but instead replied, “Then why invite me to dinner?”

“Because,” Robert began, folding his hands in front of him. “We must talk.” He then nodded to the restaurant, “And this place provides a decent enough atmosphere in which to do so.”

Bill wanted to ask what he meant by “atmosphere _,”_ but Robert held out a hand before he could voice his thoughts.

“May I have the letter, Mr. Denbrough?”

The author frowned, “Bill.” He clarified, “You can call me Bill, you know.” And pulled out the letter, holding it out to the other man.

“I know,” Gray responded. He took the letter and locking eyes with Bill, he opened it and read the contents aloud.

_Dear William Denbrough,_

_I regret that this may come as a shock to you, but I have recently discovered information regarding the case of George Denbrough’s disappearance. I’ll be frank: I am interested in your story. I know this might sound odd, but I am fascinated with the history of this town, and its particular gruesome reputation. I would very much like to meet in person and discuss it together. If you are at all interested in assisting my case, please reply to this letter with your acceptance, and my colleague will be in contact with you with further details._

_To a prosperous relationship,_

_R.G._

_“_ R.G.,” Bill repeated, “Robert Gray.”

Robert nodded, “Very good. I wrote this letter to you in hope you would agree to be my consultant. An accessory to my mission.”

A bitter smile curled Bill’s lip. “I o-originally w-wanted to tear it u-up. I d-didn’t want t-to return nor d-discuss those memories.” He spat, "Especially with a s-stranger.”

“Then why did you?”

Bill paused, considering his answer. He turned his eyes back to the window and hesitantly, he replied, “Closure.”

Bill tried to ignore the bags under his eyes, the worried lines around his mouth. It would have been easier to ignore the nagging doubt in the back of his mind; to accept that his brother was gone and truly dead. But then he wouldn’t be here, sitting in that dingy restaurant, questioning his own faith in the old police reports.

“Well hopefully we are estranged no more. And I would very much welcome any help you can provide on this investigation.”

Bill nodded, hearing the words but not listening. His eyes caught something outside. A flash of a pink rain slicker with matching boots. Bill narrowed his eyes and through the bleak weather he made out the form of a young girl playing in the rain.

Brow knit, Bill turned suspicious eyes back toward Gray. “That r-reminds me… y-you m-mentioned your researching the c-case files of the m-missing Derry children. W-why? Are y-you a c-cop? A f-federal agent?”

“Neither,” came Robert’s swift reply, “I am just a man with a deeply curious nature, and an unhealthy fascination with this town.” He leaned in, laying both hands flat against the tabletop. Above them, the light from the overhead lamps cast his face in heavy shadow. “There’s a story here Bill. Something dark and sinister. Something unknown and ignored by the people who live here.”

Robert grinned then, a genuine, and terrible smile; all teeth, with lips pulled taught at the edges.

“Wouldn’t you like to know what’s lurking out there?”

Bill turned fully to Gray. He was silent a moment, considering his next words. Did he want to know? It was a question that had been rotting in his chest for the last 26 years. A question that he held close to his vest, kept silent and protective over. A question he wanted to demand of therapists, psychologists, and his own parents, but now…

Gray was silent across the table; forever patient and relaxed against the hard wood of the straight-backed chair. Inhaling, Bill held the breath a moment, too afraid that should he speak, he’d sputter all over the table in a feedback loop of his own tumbling thoughts.

“Okay boys, here’s the digs.”

Bill looked up to see their waitress return, one hand balancing a platter, the other on her hip; lips smacking, and a look of passive annoyance as loud as her eyeliner.

“Bacon Cheeseburger and a Sweet Tea.” Kitty muttered, laying the food in front of Bill. “And glass of Merlot for tall, dark, and dangerous ova here.” Setting the glass down, she winked at Robert, silencing her smacking as she puckered her lips in an attempt at flirtation.

Robert picked up the glass and admired the red liquid within.

“I got you the good stuff,” she added, “Not that watered down crap we give the alchies up front.” Kitty stood awkwardly, waiting for a response, but when none came, she huffed, and turned back to Bill. “Anything else?”

Bill had immediately recognized they had forgotten the _“Bacon”_ in a _“Bacon Cheeseburger,”_ but declined to comment. Instead, he shook his head, and settled his eyes back on the table.

“Good.” Kitty ground out, and spun on her hip, annoyance evident as she stormed away.

For a moment, they ate in silence, or rather—Bill ate, while Robert continued gazing into his wine glass. Bill thought to comment, but instead concentrated on his own meal; failing to swallow down the taste of over-cooked beef and watery tea.

Another bite, and Bill gave up on the burger, slapping it down, and sliding the plate away. Robert caught the motion and asked, “No Appetite?”

“Hardly,” Bill answered, not amused. “I can’t eat this stuff,” he added, motioning to the partially eaten burger and fries.

Robert eyed him, and Bill turned back to the window. His eyes focused on the red glow of _Sandy’s Nail Salon_ , as he scanned the street for that young girl splashing in the puddles. He found her still clad in pink, still standing in the rain, but she wasn’t playing. She was just standing there, stock still, hand held out, and talking to someone just out of view.

“I wonder,” Robert whispered, dragging Bill back under his focus, “What are you thinking about?”

Softly, Bill replied, “I w-want to k-know.”

“Sorry?”

Bill turned away from the window, and meeting Gray’s eyes, he repeated, “I want-t to know.”

Thunder rolled; a fresh draft of rain rattled against the window pane.

“I-I don’t believe Georgie just… disappeared.” Bill explained, “But—” He paused and glanced back at his reflection, gauging his own words as he spoke them, “If I h-help y-ou… I w-want the s-story. F-Full r-rights. N-No l-lawyers.” Bill cut; eyes hard and brow wrinkled. He glanced back to Gray, then added, “T-Total control. Or I’m n-not helping.”

Robert’s gaze fell back to his glass, and Bill watched as the sallow man slid a long, pale finger around its rim. Somewhere, thunder cracked in the distance.

“… And what else do you demand?” The man’s tone was subdued; eyes locked on the glass.

“The t-truth.” Bill answered, “N-No s-secrets b-between us.”

Robert sat there silent, fingers poised and staring at his wine. Then slowly, he lifted the glass, locked eyes with Bill—and squeezed. The glass shattered, and a cascade of shimmering edges mixed with dark liquid drenched the table between them.

“No secrets.” The man repeated.

The next few moments passed in a fumbling blur. Bill daubed the mess with his napkins; while Robert stood off to the side, looking out a window with arms clasped behind his back. Bill had asked for help, but received no reply. When their waitress finally arrived, Kitty shot them both accusatory glares, before turning back around and storming out. Bill almost assumed she’d abandoned them, until she returned with a towel in one hand and first aid kit in the other; gum smacking and scowl on her face.

Bill tired to stumble out of the way, but Kitty cornered him. Prepared for a scolding, his fingers twisted the soaked napkins in his hands, but when Kitty spoke, her tone was concerned, if not a little put out for the trouble.

“Your hand.” She motioned with the first aid kit, “It’s bleeding.”

Bill looked to his hand, noticing the blood. Blushing, he held his arm out to her.

Kitty takes his hand, and not too kindly, cleans the wound and wraps it. Bill mumbles a thank you; Kitty rolls her eyes.

The table was cleaned, and when Kitty left mumbling about _“Having to do everything around here herself,”_ Bill was left staring between the wrapped wound on his hand and the silent man still gazing out the window.

Wordlessly, Robert turned from the window and started walking out of the restaurant.

“He-Hey wa-wait a moment!” Bill fumbled, pulling out a few twenties from his wallet and dumping them on the table. He hoped it was enough.

The taller man was almost out of the restaurant when Bill caught up. He put a hand on his shoulder, causing the man to halt and round on him. Gray’s eyes were hard, looking as if he had swallowed something nasty and was contemplating throwing it back up. “Yes, Bill?” He asked, his words clipped and sharp.

“Ya-You ca-could of he-helped.” Bill stated, burning accusatory eyes into Robert’s frigid own. “Wh-Why di-din’t you?”

Robert waited a moment, glancing down at the hand on his shoulder, then turning those cold cruel eyes back to Bill, he replied,

“Because I love seeing you on your knees.”

Robert smiled, and by the time Bill’s brain caught up with his mouth, the man had already walked out of the restaurant. Bill’s feet felt as heavy as bricks when he tried to follow.

“—I don’t care that I’m making a scene. I need your help!”

The sound of a woman’s voice caused Bill to pause in the doorway of the front lobby. She was an older woman, maybe late fifties, and leaning over the lobby desk, hands grasping the edges of the oak and screaming into the face of the poor desk attendant.

“ma’am I understand your concern, but—”

The woman slammed her fist on the desk, shutting the smaller man’s mouth. “My little girl is missing!” From his vantage Bill could see the sweat dripping down her face, the mud on her clothes, and wet, messy hair that told the tale of a woman pulled far beyond the point of breaking. She was scared and desperate, and there was no calming her down.

“Help me find my daughter!” She wailed again, and grabbed for the clerks suit jacket. Painted nails found purchase on the fabric, and she clawed at the man as grasped her wrists trying to fight her off. “We’ve already called the authorities,” he yelled back, then waving a hand, two more men in suits grasped the woman under the armpits and wrenched her off of the desk clerk.

She kicked and flailed and begged, but the men held her. The clerk took a moment to straighten his bowtie, then clearing his throat he continued in the same mild exploratory tone he used earlier.

“As I was saying, Ma’am the sherif has been notified. There’s really nothing more I can do.” 

 “You son-of-a-bitch!” She screamed, “My daughter is out there—alone,” she pointed to the storm raging outside, “—And your telling me there’s nothing you can do?”

 “Ma’am its black as pitch out there. We can’t make out a thing—”

“Please—” The woman was crying now. She implored him with her eyes. “It’s my daughter.”

The clerk sighed. He picked up a notepad, and motioned to the two men. They let her go and backed away.

“What does she look like?”

“She’s about twelve years old, blond hair, she was wearing a pink rain coat and boots—”

Whatever the woman said there after, Bill did not hear. He ran through the lobby and into the torrential downpour outside. A sudden panic was boiling just below his collar as he stepped out into the rain, conscious of his need to breath but suddenly feeling as if he could not.

He swung his head back and forth, seeking the familiar shape of a young girl dressed in pink. Across the street, the _Sandy’s Nail Salon_ was dark; no people walked the streets.

Bill stood their—static, gaze lingering where the girl had been playing only moments before. He could see rain rippling against concrete; he could see water snaking down curbs; he could see trash, and dirt, and leaves sucked down and swallowed whole by the maw of a nearby gutter...

He saw no sign of the girl.


End file.
